‘Look at this clause, as an example,’ she said, showing him the relevant passage. ‘This is ridiculous—I don’t need special treatment.’
‘Do you find it patronising?’ Heath asked as she turned her face up to him.
‘Well, yes, I do, actually,’ she said. ‘Would anyone else get this sort of contract? I doubt it, Heath.’
‘Does friendship count for nothing, Bronte?’
‘Friendship…’ She looked at him in something close to bewilderment.
Leaning back against the counter, he was acutely conscious of Bronte standing only inches away. ‘Sign or don’t sign,’ he said, shifting position and moving away.
‘I want to be the best person for the job, Heath.’ She frowned. ‘But you don’t seem to care what I do, which doesn’t fill me with confidence. I don’t want any special favours. I want you to take me on because I’m the best.’
‘You are the best candidate,’ he said evenly, meeting her gaze.
‘And the rest of it?’ she said.
He stared away into his thoughts. ‘I just want you to be happy, Bronte. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
How could she be? Bronte wondered as her fingers closed around the contract. Heath was right, this contract had been her goal, but wanting Heath eclipsed everything, which meant this piece of paper with its more than generous terms fell so far short of what she had hoped for, she could hardly raise the energy to sign it.
‘I’m not changing a word of it,’ Heath told her. ‘But I will give you a little more time to decide if you want to go ahead and sign it. In the meantime—’ his lips tugged up in a faint smile ‘—have you eaten anything this morning?’
‘No … have you?’
Their gazes held for a moment. If this was friendship—this feeling that survived everything—then she’d take it.
‘Are you hungry, Bronte?’
Heath’s question made her nose sting. ‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
‘Then let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make you something to eat.’
‘You cook?’
‘I cook,’ Heath confirmed.
He led the way into a large, airy kitchen. With its glass roof, and fabulous state-of-the-art appliances, it had the spacious feel of an orangerie. ‘Did you design it?’ she said, looking around.
‘I prepared the brief, did the drawings, and sourced the materials, so there could be no mistakes,’ Heath explained, reaching for a pan and turning on the cooker.
‘Did you do most of the work yourself?’ she said, admiring the way the original ornate plasterwork had been incorporated into the modern design.
‘Most of it—though I did allow the interior designers to plump the cushions when I’d finished.’
When Heath curved a smile it was like a light turning on, Bronte thought, but she mustn’t be dazzled by it.
‘Eggs Benedict?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely. I like eating—so it’s essential that I cook.’
She laughed, and finally relaxed.
He loved the sound of Bronte laughing. It was the only soundtrack he needed. He found a bowl and started whisking. ‘Why don’t you sit and read your contract? This will take a few minutes.’
As Heath got busy cracking eggs and reaching for the seasoning she laid the contract on the cool black granite, and signed it without another word.
Tipping buttery sauce onto the spinach, eggs and muffins, he came to sit next to her at the breakfast bar. ‘You signed it,’ he said, brow furrowing as he stared at the contract.
‘And here’s your copy,’ she said, handing him half the papers. ‘Eat. You must be hungry too. This is delicious, Heath,’ she commented after the first mouthful.
Their arms were almost touching. This was the closest they had come to relaxing together since—since she didn’t want to think about. She wanted to start over—this way—with a friendship between two adults—just see where it led. Nowhere, probably, but, hey—
‘Now you’re formally part of the team,’ Heath said as he forked up egg, ‘I’ll tell you my thoughts about Hebers Ghyll.’ Was that disappointment in Bronte’s eyes? Wasn’t this what she wanted? ‘If there’s something else you’d like to discuss first?’
‘Nothing,’ she protested, a little too vigorously, he thought. ‘I’d like to hear your plans, Heath.’
‘Okay.’ As he talked he wondered if she was listening. She looked intent, but she was looking at him rather than listening to what he was telling her. It could wait, he thought, starting to collect the plates up.
‘Is that it?’ she said.
‘For now.’
‘So you started off thinking, “What do I need this for?” when you inherited,’ she guessed, ‘and then found me camped out on your latest acquisition and discovered a sense of ownership.’
A grin creased his face. ‘That’s pretty much the version I remember.’
‘At least by camping out I got your interest.’
‘You got something,’ Heath agreed as they filled the dishwasher together, arms brushing, faces close. ‘And your campaign won through,’ he admitted tongue in cheek. ‘I’m going to keep the place, aren’t I?’ he said, straightening up. ‘And I want you to have the pleasure of telling everyone their jobs are safe.’
Her face brightened in a quick smile—a smile she found hard to sustain and so she turned away from him.
Everything would be all right now, Bronte told herself firmly. Heath would have to come down to visit. His visits would be formal affairs—but they’d be visits.
‘I thought I might open part of the house and grounds to the public.’
She turned. ‘But that’s a wonderful idea.’
‘It makes a certain amount of sense,’ Heath agreed.
As always, he was the one under control. ‘It makes more than sense,’ she couldn’t stop herself exclaiming. ‘Uncle Harry would have loved that idea—’
‘What you have to understand,’ Heath interrupted, ‘is that I own the estate now, Bronte.’
‘Of course I realise that—I do,’ she assured him, struggling to rein back her emotions. ‘And anything you want me to do when I go back—just add it to the list.’ She was ready to start work right away—this minute—but the look Heath was giving her was different from the way she felt inside. It was steadier—brooding, almost. ‘What?’ she said.
Heath’s powerful shoulders eased in a shrug. ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe I’ll open an office there.’
Thank you, thank you …
Bronte’s lips pressed down in a good imitation of, okay, then—no big deal. And then Heath got into practical matters—bricks and mortar, balance sheets, and making the place pay for itself, while she told him everything she could remember that made Hebers Ghyll so special to her. All the little things that had coloured her childhood, like the lush tang of newly mown meadow grass—eating hazelnuts straight from the bush, if the squirrels hadn’t got to them first—blackthorn bushes heavy with purple sloe—
‘Do you remember that sloe